Empty Eyes and Broken Smiles
by Honour Society
Summary: Death seemed better than living in this life. Massie-centric.


**Author's Note:** _This is what happens when I get the new issue of _Vanity Fair. _In lieu of the epic Massington or Cassie debate going on in every other Clique fic, I decided to make this ABSOLUTELY WHATEVER PAIRING YOU WANT. Be that Kempsie or Mosh or even Dassie. Enjoy. _

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Anything. At all. Definitely don't own _VF_; wish I did, though_._

**Empty Eyes and Broken Smiles**

__

-A Clique OneShot written by: Honour Society-

Slouchy apple-green Mulberry leather tote over her Pilates-toned, sun-dappled shoulder, Massie Block flashed the _Vanity Fair _writer her most practiced, benevolent, ain't-my-life-perfect? grin before name-dropping Judd Apatow and swearing she had an un-missable meeting to make.

"I'm so sorry." The celebrated actress feigned absolute upset. "I just have to go. You know those Hollywood big-wigs." Her left eyelid dropped into a casual, sexy wink. Massie hitched a finger towards the door and pulled a thin stack of twenties from her Gucci purse. As if this was some confidential piece of information, she whispered in the balding writer's ear, "Credit cards are so not my thing."

As she pushed her glossy dark hair with caramel streaks courtesy of Warren Tricomi himself behind her freckled ear, she politely slipped off the high-backed wooden chair of the celebutante hotspot Massie had requested they meet at, leaving her agent's business card and the scent of Chanel No. 11 in her wake.

Ever since Claire, that whiny blonde nobody, had passed on the opportunity to star in _Dial L For Loser _alongside Abby Boyd and Connor Foley, Massie Block's star only rose. Instead of snatching up the role like some desperate wannabe, Massie breezed by Claire's leftovers and stole the part of cheerleading bitch from under Abby's perky little couture-clad tush.

Six years later, Massie's eighteenth birthday passed in a flash of trick candles, Cold Stone Creamery cupcakes with custom-ordered purple frosting, sequined minidresses from Shop Bop dot com and an entourage of the coolest of the cool. She was living the life. Of course, she was living it completely and utterly alone. Several times she tried to get over him by being seen with that one guy from The Jonas Brothers or the cutie from _Gossip Girl_, but even if her empty eyes and broken smiles fooled the stalkerazzi, she couldn't fool herself.

It had been years since her iPhone vibrated through the thin fabric of Wolford footless tights alerting her that he wanted so desperately to talk to her. He was serving time in juvie now. He was dating Claire freakin' Lyons last she'd heard. But then again, Massie's Palm Pilot might have been full of producers, directors, writers and actors' numbers, but Alicia Rivera's, resident Westchester Gossip Queen, had been deleted long ago. Maybe the Alpha couple were split up by now. It would be hard to date someone when you could only look at them through frosted glass; talk to them through awkward phone calls, knowing someone was listening to your everyone word.

And yet, Massie knew that if she was still with him, she would do it.

_Buzzzz. _Feeling a warm blush creep up her already-swept-with-Tarte in Blushing Bride cheeks, Massie's permanently-manicured fingers jumped to her side holster. It was still BeJewelled; the very same one she'd stayed up all night making while chewing Smart Food popcorn and watching _E! _while Claire Lyons herself double-checked her stitches. She missed those days, even if she'd never admit it to anyone but herself. Sure, her new clique was made of Young Hollywood A-Listers who all had multiple houses (bought with their own cashola, not that of their lawyer parents, thank you very much), multiple boyfriends and silver spoons stuck firmly in their mouths. But it wasn't the same as having real friends. If you could call Alicia, Kristen, Dylan and Claire '_real_', that is.

"Block," she answered formally. Sections of her hair were caught on her shiny glossed lips, but she didn't care enough to swipe them away. At the sound of a camera flash, she pasted on another broken smile and half-waved at the creepy bald guy hiding in the bushes. _That's not weird at all..._

"_Hey_." It couldn't be. But it was. _His voice._

"I thought you were doing time," she retorted shakily, picking her her pace to avoid any snooping paparazzi listening in on her conversation. It was a complete PC. Private. Conversation.

"That was then, and, _this,_" he replied in a cheeky tone, "is now."

"Oh. Okay." A sharp inhalation of air. "Cool. Where are you?"

"Too far away, Mass. Too far away..." Though she wasn't positive if he was being flirty or sentimental, she was leaning towards the former. With their history, it was impossible for them not to dip into the casual banter they'd perfected through their years of dating.

"Westchester, I presume?" Maybe her tone of voice was a bit cranky, but, hell, she'd just had a twenty-two minute long luncheon with a senile old man who was blatantly hitting on her one minute and interrogating her on underage drug use the next. Didn't she deserve to be a bit...grouchy?

"Nah." He paused, his voice lilting to new highs, "Canada."

"Canada," Massie repeated, her perfectly-arched eyebrows bowing at the sound of it. "That barren iceland? Why?"

"To get away from it all. And, well, I've met a girl."

Almost instantaneously, Massie's lips went dry and she was struck with the realization that she was too late. She'd lost her one chance at true, unadulterated love and she was barely eligible to vote.

"Her name's Lucy. She's adorable, nice, smart, funny. I mean, _hell,_ she's no you, but she's great nonetheless."

"I see."

"I've asked her to marry me."

"And?"

This next part seemed more difficult for her former lover to spit out: "She said yes. We're getting married next month in a small church just outside Vancouver. I know you'll be there filming that new pilot. Lucy would die if she met you; she's a big fan of your stuff."

"Tell her," she said, "that I wouldn't be there even if it meant losing all my limbs. Talk to you _never_."

Amber eyes dripping with salty tears, she slipped into the women's washroom of a small art studio along the strip of land. Her momager, Kendra, would later explain her actions as "as teenager girl with too much pressure forced upon her." Massie didn't need any explanation. Death seemed better than living in this life.


End file.
